Beautifully Broken (The Denver Series Book 2)

by Eve L Mitchell

  Beautifully Broken

  The Denver Series #2

  Copyright © 2020 Eve L. Mitchell

  Published by Hudson Indie Ink

  www.hudsonindieink.com

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editorial services provided by Helayna Trask with Polished Perfection

  Cover design by JJ’s Design & Creations; jjdesigncreations.wixsite.com

  Cover Photo provided by Wander Aguair Photography www.wanderbookclub.com

  Cover model: Christianna Knutson

  Beautifully Broken/Eve L. Mitchell – 1st ed.

  ISBN-13 - 978-1-913904-43-2

  Contents

  Note from the Author

  Foreword

  Playlist

  The Families

  1. Devon

  2. Devon

  3. Devon

  4. Devon

  5. Raphe

  6. Devon

  7. Raphe

  8. Devon

  9. Raphe

  10. Devon

  11. Raphe

  12. Devon

  13. Raphe

  14. Devon

  15. Raphe

  16. Devon

  17. Raphe

  18. Devon

  19. Raphe

  20. Raphe

  21. Devon

  22. Devon

  23. Raphe

  24. Raphe

  25. Devon

  26. Raphe

  27. Raphe

  Epilogue

  Sneaky Peek…

  From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Eve L. Mitchell

  Other Works from Hudson Indie Ink

  Amber, Julie & Renee, for the unequivocal love, support and willingness to drop everything to read my words, I can never thank you enough.

  Mr M…well, you know I can’t do it without you.

  I have tried to stay true to the locations and landmarks of Denver, Colorado. Any error that there may be in my descriptions, is entirely mine and my inability to research properly.

  Please note that the deviations that there may be from the cities mentioned in this book or surrounding area are to fit in with the story.

  I am a British author and although I have tried to make this story as universal as I could, there will be some British spelling, phraseology, and terminology that I can’t (and won’t) eradicate from my writing. I am okay with that, I hope you are too.

  This is the second book in the Denver Series. You do not need to have read book one, Her Greatest Mistake, however you may enjoy the story more if you do.

  Please note that this is a mafia romance story. There are elements of dark romance within it that some readers may find triggering. The sexual interactions between the characters are fully consensual.

  I would class this story as “light grey” in the dark romance genre. Everyone’s shades of grey/black are different, and I am uneasy about giving this book a shading at all; however, it would be remiss of me not to mention it.

  I Am An Outsider: Three Days Grace

  Devil: Shinedown

  A Beautiful Lie: Thirty Seconds To Mars

  Fire: PVRIS

  Drown: Bring Me The Horizon

  Natural Born Killer: Avenged Sevenfold

  Right Left Wrong: Three Days Grace

  Cochise: Audioslave

  Can You Feel My Heart: Bring Me The Horizon

  How Many Walls: Rise Against

  Map Of The Problematique: Muse

  All My Life: Foo Fighters

  Burn It Down: Linkin Park

  Creatures: Shinedown

  Let ‘Em Burn: Nothing More

  Throne: Bring Me The Horizon

  Running Up That Hill: Placebo

  The Dark Of You: Breaking Benjamin

  Fuckin’ Perfect: P!NK

  Believer: Imagine Dragons

  The Maze: Manchester Orchestra

  Million Reasons: Lady Gaga

  Click here to listen on Spotify.

  Only you can heal your hurt.

  Eve L. Mitchell

  Sabino Family (based in San Diego)

  Antonio Sabino - Head of family

  Nico Sabino - eldest son of Antonio

  Harmony Sabino - Antonio’s daughter

  Alberto Sabino - brother to Antonio

  Micky Sabino - eldest son of Alberto

  Cameron Sabino - nephew of Alberto

  Anna-Maria Sabino - older sister of Antonio and Alberto

  Neroni Family (based in Denver)

  Louis Neroni - Head of family

  Emilio Neroni - nephew of Louis

  Vialli Family (based in Denver)

  Katalina Vialli

  Litton Family (based in Denver)

  Malcolm Litton

  Aiden Ashford

  Lastra Family (based in New York)

  Ray Lastra - Head of family

  As I looked at my bundle of belongings, I bit back the sigh. That damn crazy old man over on Fourteenth had been trying to claim my spot again, I knew it with the way my things were moved. Old fucker. Turning, I looked over to the pile of boxes that was my friend Jimmy’s “home.”

  “Jimmy?” I called softly. Friend was a loose term; we shared the alley behind the restaurants. He hadn’t liked sharing with me at first, but when he realised I really wasn’t interested in the leftovers from the bar he made camp outside of, we were fine. “Jimmy, you sleeping?”

  “Was sleeping, some fool ass idiot woman keeps yammering at me,” came the grumbled reply.

  “Jimmy, did that old crazy guy come try to take my spot again?” I demanded as I stared at his boxes. He had fresh ones. The trashmen must have picked his ones up when he went for his walk earlier. If it was the usual crew, they knew to leave his bit of the alley alone—Jimmy was very territorial over his boxes.

  “Maybe.” I heard his disinterested grumble.

  “Fucking hell, Jimmy, you know you have to look out for my spot,” I said as I glared back at my own spot. “This is what I give you my food for, idiot.” I ignored his rumblings, and then pretty soon, I heard his snores. He must have gotten lucky today, I realised. Which meant someone gave him a good amount of money for him to go buy his liquor. I wasn’t judging. Hell, as I rearranged my spot and pulled out my blanket, I was so far from judging I wasn’t even in the same zip code.

  Sitting down, I leaned against the wall of the bistro. My spot was a small alcove in the brickwork. I think it may have been an access door at one point, but was now blocked off, leaving the former entrance recessed in from the alley. It wasn’t big, but it kept me tucked away and sometimes provided me with some shelter from the rain. I could hear the staff moving around inside the kitchen, and I also knew I only had a short time before the back doors would be opened to let the heat out. In win
ter, that back door had saved me from freezing too many times. In summer, it reminded me why there was a thing called air-conditioning. Last night, I had made it to the Christian Aid shelter and had a bed for the night, but more importantly, Lisa, the nighttime administrator, had slipped me some shower gel, and I had a proper shower and washed my hair. When I woke up this morning, I had stayed for breakfast and then sneaked out before she or any of the counsellors saw me and gave me the “talk.”

  The talk was to try and aid me in getting off the streets and into a program. I wasn’t a junkie, so I didn’t need to get clean, and I wasn’t an alcoholic, so I didn’t need to get sober. I was just a twenty-six-year-old woman with no job, no home, no money and no prospects. The streets had, so far, treated me fairly. I’d had a few skirmishes, had my things stolen, had my food taken, and on two occasions almost had more than what I was willing to give taken from me by force. However, on both occasions, my assailants had been interrupted, and I had run. Fast.

  I didn’t whore myself out, even though the creep off of Champa kept trying to “recruit” me. I’d seen his girls, bruised, sallow looking, and usually so high they were feeling no pain. There was that benefit for them, at least.

  I had come close to turning tricks myself. I judged no one for the choices they made out here. Life was fucking hard, and you did what you could to survive. If that meant you chose to lie back and let some shithead fuck you for money, then that was your business.

  Jimmy chose to beg outside bars. He wandered around until people would stick something in his cup just to make him go away. He also had been working his patch for a long time, so he had actual regulars who would toss him a dollar steadily. Sometimes, they would give him more than a dollar, and that’s when he went to the store, bought his bottle of poison for the day, and came back here to drink it and forget.

  I smiled as I leaned my head against the brickwork. Jimmy was a veteran with a busted leg. He was absolutely harmless, to me. He had a mean temper to anyone else. On the rare occasions we had an actual conversation, he told me that he was happier on the street, life made sense to him out here. Unlike me. I wasn’t really out here by choice, but considering my options of where I could be, the back of the restaurant off of Sixteenth was just fine for me too.

  Jimmy snored loudly, and knowing he was completely out of it, I dug into my old battered rucksack. I glanced at his spot a few times before I convinced myself he was definitely sleeping, then slowly I pulled out the chicken wrap I had been given from a kind looking lady earlier. It was still fresh, and I was salivating over it as I carefully unwrapped the packaging. I tried my best to get to the shelter most nights—especially after my most recent “escape” from an overly friendly stranger—and the shelter would give me food, but it was still a long day between one meal at night. I didn’t go every night, my most was five times in a week. That had been directly after the first run-in with a scumbag. I had been too scared to try the nights alone again on the street.

  Then I had met Jimmy, and he must have realised I was terrified of being alone at night, because he told me if I had to, I could share with him. On the understanding that I kept to my side of the alley, I stayed at least twelve feet from him, and I never, ever asked for his booze.

  I bit into the succulent wrap and almost moaned out loud. It was so good, the lettuce crisp and fresh, the tomatoes juicy. I was a happy woman. I tried my best to eat it slowly. I wasn’t going to the shelter tonight, so I needed to eat this slowly and appreciate it. When it was finished, I looked at the wrapper forlornly. Maybe I had been too greedy. I put the wrapper in the trash further up the alley and then made my way back to my blanket.

  The staff in the kitchen started becoming louder, and I knew that more of them were at work. They would open soon for dinner, lunchtime service was over, it must be near four. I curled up as I stared at the bright blue Denver sky. My hair was loose and fanned around me, and I lamented over the fact my clean hair was on my dirty blanket. It had been so hot today as I walked my patch. I tried not to go to the same spots day after day but found I could be more successful in getting donations if I rotated my spots. Today I had gone all the way down to Nineteenth, but Clive chased me off after a few hours. Clive was not like Jimmy, Clive was batshit crazy and used a stick to whack people if they were encroaching on his territory. I’d felt the brunt of his stick more than once. Last time, I’d walked with a limp for three days.

  Sitting up, I counted out my takings for the day. Twenty-three dollars. Not bad. Rolling up the bills, I slipped them under my breasts, as always grateful for my C-cup and ignoring the initial uncomfortableness of the bills. My money couldn’t get taken then. My backpack could get taken, but all it had in it was a magazine, an extra pair of sneakers, a brush and two extra layers of clothes for when it got colder. Pockets could be picked, but I had yet to find a pickpocket who could get into my bra and under my boobs without me knowing. The change, I would barter with Jimmy over and I’d eventually get a five-dollar bill.

  Money in place, fed and bruise-free, I determined that today had been a good day. The voices within the kitchen were getting steadily louder, and then they quietened. I perked up, my eyes watching the back vents as the steam poured out steadily. Suddenly, the back door was slammed open, and I jumped. Even though they did this every day, I still jumped. Holding my breath, I waited.

  The foot came out and then his leg. I ducked my head so I was watching under my hair and looked to be not watching at all. I watched as the guy came out a little and surveyed the street. I felt my heart racing. He was absolutely gorgeous. Hair so blond it looked white, tied back in a short ponytail, tall and broad and swoon worthy. I wasn’t sure, but I thought the restaurant was his since his white chef coat was always pristine, and having seen some of the other chefs in the kitchen, who had stained work clothes by the end of the night, I had decided the blond god was boss. His black pants complimented his long lean legs, and I suppressed my sigh.

  He looked good enough to eat. His eyes ran over Jimmy and me, completely oblivious to our existence, which is why Jimmy liked it here. The workers didn’t care we were out here. We didn’t beg at the kitchen door; in fact, we stayed clear all together. The smells coming out of the kitchen were enough to drive you crazy with want, but Jimmy had told me on my first night, do not beg. Do not give them a reason to see you. So, I didn’t.

  When they were extra busy and we knew they couldn’t hear us, we would try and guess the specials of the day. Which was a fun game but not so fun in winter when our bellies were empty and the heat and the smell of food was almost too tempting. Jimmy would wait and would have no problem digging through the waste bins when the restaurant was closed. I wasn’t as eager, but when you were hungry, you couldn’t always be fussy about where your food came from.

  The tall chef went back inside, leaving the door open. I closed my eyes, committing his good looks to memory. He wasn’t there every day, and I knew he was completely unaware he was giving me a highlight whenever he stepped outside. As I leaned against the wall and listened to the flowing conversation, I relaxed slightly. The kitchen was background noise, almost as comforting as a radio playing softly, and although I couldn’t always hear them, their murmured voices or the snippets of conversation I did hear settled me.

  The afternoon passed quickly, and I watched the kitchen staff as they took their breaks. Bony Boy took more breaks than the others. He smoked, so he always seemed to be sneaking a smoke break. Curvy Girl took two breaks, and each break she would spend the entirety of it on her cell phone. Lanky Man took one break, and he would pace back and forth for the entirety of it. The pacing drove Jimmy insane, but Jimmy never uttered a word. Mean Dick glared at us both for the entirety of his break. At first I was hesitant, waiting for him to storm over and throw me out of the alley, but all he did was stand and glare. After a while, he wasn’t as threatening, but he still unnerved me.

  Make no eye contact. That was the key to survival.

  People saw home
less people. They saw them every day and walked past, because the majority of people ignored us. However, when that same person thought that you saw them, well, that was a different story. Suddenly, they were in your face, giving you attitude, mocking, taunting, scaring or just outright attacking you. I didn’t understand at first, but Jimmy explained it to me. For me to see them meant that they knew that I knew they were choosing to walk by. They felt attacked by me. If I wanted to avoid such confrontations, it was easier to keep my eyes lowered, which kept their faces blank. People passing felt better about themselves when they pretended we weren’t there.

  I realised what he said was true, because before I had been living on the street, I would have walked past me too. Sobering thought. Depressing thought really.

  As the sounds of the kitchen got louder as the restaurant got busier, I felt my eyes droop. Although the shelter offered some comfort, I could never sleep well in them. With my rucksack strap hooked around my ankle, and my arms across my chest, I nodded off. I woke to the sound of murmured voices and a feeling of wrongness. Slowly opening my eyes, I realised it was dark, properly dark. It was late summer, but still, for it to be this dark, I must have been asleep for longer than I thought. I cast a quick look over to Jimmy’s boxes and saw that they were slightly scattered, which meant Jimmy had woken up from his slumber and went looking for more booze.